


We Don't Get A Say In What They Trade Away

by bdiddy150 (dismalspacenoodle)



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: "how did hamilton get the financial capital?", :(, Adrienne Lafayette is wonderful, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, BAMF Eliza, BAMF Elizabeth, Bad Puns, Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hamilton - Freeform, Heavy Angst, Help, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, I tag too much, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infidelity, Like, M/M, Open Relationships, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Panic Attacks, Pansexual Lafayette, Past Relationship(s), Peggy grew up, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, Sub Alexander Hamilton, and kinda burr i guess, and now shes a sassy motherfucker who aint gonna take ur shit, and oh shit they're married now nice work, asexual burr?, because who isn't emotionally secure enough to handle a relationship right now??, burr is nice, burr is slightly terrified of eliza, but also a ray of sunshine, but itS NOT HIS FAULT K, dubcon is all offscreen, eliza feels betrayed, except try to understand and help each other, fact™, gay burr?, hammy whump, he got fucked by southern motherfucking democratic republicans, i have kept the children safe by keeping them the fuck outta this, i mean knowing me there will be bad puns, im always a slut for pure and wholesome relationships, john is alive bc i said so, lafayette is in america bc i said so, mentioned gay army shenanigans, none of these people have children, none of these poor people are emotionally prepared to do anything, open-ended relationships, peggy is basically the opposite of herc, peggy isn't dead because peggy is a goddess, probably, reallllllllly slow, subtle wicked references, thats right, the kids do not exist, theo is dead (rip) but we all loved her, they reynolds pamphlet is a SHAM, today on What Was This Work Inspired By: my health class!, uh, washington is a dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:16:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalspacenoodle/pseuds/bdiddy150
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It can’t be worth it,” he protested.<br/>Alexander flinched. “It was worth it. It has to be worth it.”</p><p>OR:<br/>Hamilton sacrifices a little too much for the cause and pays the price. Burr's there to help him through.<br/>The gang's along for the ride, and it's not a pretty one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aaron Burr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all goes down and Aaron is Not Amused. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning, everyone! This story doesn't get super explicit on the actual rape (because that's not my thing, sorry) but it is pretty heavy on after-effects and self-blame by the victim. I say not super explicit because none of the fic atually focuses on what it is to be raped, but it is on-screen at several times throughout the story. Explicit warning + where to skip if you don't like that will be in the end notes.  
> For the purpose of this fic, Thomas, James, Aaron, and Alex all work at the same office.  
> 

“Aaron,” Hamilton noted distantly as Burr walked into his office.

Hamilton never called Burr by anything but his surname, keeping an air of professionalism between them; failing that, he would be addressed with “sir”, shocking Burr every time by how much emotion such a small word could have.

Maybe that wasn’t true—the first time the two met, Hamilton had called him “Aaron Burr, sir”.

The point was, if the shorter man was distracted enough to address his fellow politician by his Christian name, something was off. _Way_ off.

Burr realized Hamilton was staring at him oddly, and, internally wincing at the amount of time he must’ve spent staring at the other man absently, hastened to reply with a level, “Hamilton.”

The Secretary of Treasury reached for a quill, his trembling hands testing Burr’s ability to keep his nose out of a situation (testing his ability to not jump across the desk and wrap the smaller man up in his arms until he stopped shaking). “What did you want?” His voice, at least, carried none of the worrying quaking of his thin hands.

Right, Burr had come in here for a reason. He reached into his coat, quickly pulling out the papers Madison had instructed him to bring to Hamilton and shoving them towards him.

He wasn’t expecting Hamilton’s flinch, sending him so far back his head cracked against the couch. He wasn’t expecting Hamilton to squeeze his eyes shut, like he was trying to block out the world around them. He wasn’t expecting any of this, and yet, it happened.

Before he could attempt to do _something_ —comfort the man, pull him from whatever dark place he had retreated into—Hamilton looked up, his expression going carefully blank as he snapped, “Get out of my office. _Now.”_

Burr wearily left, chalking the odd behavior up to something concerning Hamilton’s past—the journey to America couldn’t have been easy; there was bound to be some residual trauma haunting his mind.

He almost believed himself.

And almost was enough to let him walk out of that door.

 

\--

 

The next time Aaron saw Hamilton, he was in a much better condition—that is, instead of being skittish and trembling, he sat still as a statue, his expression flat and his eyes terrifyingly empty. The usual snipping at (banter with) Burr had traded places with an eerie silence. No matter how he poked and prodded, his words couldn’t pierce the shell around the man. He finally gave up, placing the letters from the vice president and Madison on the desk and letting himself out.

If he had looked back in that moment, he would’ve seen how thin the walls around Hamilton were—how quickly they crumbled as his dark eyes darted over the loopy writing scrawled across the page.

Maybe he wouldn’t have heard the words echoing in the other man’s head ( _Washington said do_ anything _to get the capital)_ , maybe he wouldn’t have seen the “invitation” from Jefferson written by Madison’s hand ( _Alexander, do be a lamb and join Madison and I for a little chat downtown later; I would_ hate _for a setback in our negotiations so long worked upon, wouldn’t you?)_ , maybe he wouldn’t have known why Hamilton insisted on coming into work on his worst days ( _He just couldn’t be alone, he couldn’t sit at home and stare at blank walls and remember what he did so often, he couldn’t let the guilt and disgust and hatred bounce off empty surfaces—)_ but he _would’ve_ seen the blatant terror on Hamilton’s face, plain as day now that the fragile protection had dissolve without a person to see it.

But Aaron didn’t turn around, and Aaron didn’t see. He just kept walking.

 

\--

 

A few days after that, Burr was back at Hamilton’s door—to his growing irritation, Madison and Jefferson had elected him to run letters back and forth the three men—and waiting for Washington to exit the study so he could drop off the correspondence. He heard the two conferring through the door and guiltily listened in.

“Alexander, I need the banks as soon as possible,” Washington finished, ending a speech he had probably given moments before.

“I’m doing everything I can, sir.” Hamilton sounded unusually subdued.

Washington must’ve picked up on it, too, as his tone softened as he said, “Those two are hard to bargain with, son. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

Aaron scrambled away from the door as Washington walked out—on anyone else, that would’ve been a strut, but the president wasn’t the kind to _strut_ , he marched, his head held high and his steps falling with the certainty that there would always be ground below them.

In stark contrast, Aaron noted to himself as he stepped in the room after the general left, Hamilton seemed so unsteady even perched on his chair, clinging with a white-knuckle grip to his desk, his eyes almost as wild as his hair, which wasn’t in its usual bun today, but flying haphazardly in a disheveled mane around Hamilton’s drawn face.

“My God, Hamilton—“ Burr began, only to be cut off.

“Leave the letter and go, sir,” Alexander snapped, his voice brittle and icy at the same time.

The only thing keeping Burr from refusing—from planting his hands on the desk and demanding an explanation—was the danger it might pose to get involved with an opponent of Jefferson’s. _Wait and see which way the wind blows, Burr_ , he chastised himself. _There’s no need to anger an ally over one ill-groomed man._

And so he walked out the door again. He missed all the signs, once again, missed the problem in fear of a phantom possibility.

And Alexander fell apart again, with no one to comfort him and no one any wiser.

 

\--

 

The next time Aaron saw his—friend? adversary? enemy?—wasn’t even of his own volition. He was sitting at his desk, writing an essay for the press on the “possible pros and cons of having the Georgetown University, the first American Catholic School, founded in Washington, D.C.” ad skirting around any clear opinion ( _I’ll keep all my plans close to my chest._ ) while still giving a long and quite frankly boring written response to the insistent journalist, when a rage-filled woman flew past him in a blaze of blue skirts and long, dark hair. Stepping neatly into the corridor, he called after her, “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to cease your running; this is a government building and being here without invitation is considered trespassing.”

The woman turned her gaze to Burr, and he was suddenly regretful he thought himself capable of stopping this woman—her glare alone could burn through walls. “I have something to discuss with my husband, sir,” she spat.

“And who may that be?” Aaron managed.

“Alexander Hamilton.”

 _Oh, shit,_ Burr thought. “Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until he gets home, Missus Hamilton. Your husband is working on a—“

“ _My husband_ has not come home in three days, _sir_. I will speak to him when I please.” Burr winced. He could see why Hamilton married this woman; she could command an army as well as Washington if she tried. “Point me to his office, if you will be so kind.”

Burr sighed, giving in and telling her to go “down the hallway, two from the end on the left” and returned to his office, tiredly rubbing his arm.

The Hamiltons always seemed to surprise him; not ten minutes later the woman appeared again, dragging an exhausted Alexander down the hall and scolding him for missing sleep.

Burr tried to feel irritated for being interrupted at work, but all he could summon was a crushing relief that Hamilton was being taken care of.

 

\--

 

Two days later, the Virginians and Hamilton further discussed the capital—according to Jefferson, they were close to finishing, but none of the details would leave the room until the final decision was made. Aaron knew how taboo it was to burst in uninvited to a meeting like this, but it was the second time that week a woman had dashed through his office demanding to see her husband—today, however, it was Martha Jefferson, crying that “Lucy is _dead_ , don’t you understand?”

And Burr, in his endless weakness for families, had told Mrs. Jefferson to stay put while he fetched her husband—which is how he got to where he was now, standing in the doorway of a quaint little room, gaping at the sight in front of him.

Jefferson was—Madison had Hamilton—and now Jefferson was reaching over—and he was saying something Burr could barely hear over the rush in his ears—

“Hey, Burr, want to join in?”

After unfreezing, Aaron let loose a string of expletives and stomped forwards. “Put your clothes back on,” he snarled, disgusted at the idea that the nation’s decisions were being settled by _fucking_. He watched Jefferson sigh, watched him pull out from the body on the floor, watched Madison tuck his still-erect dick back into his pants from where he had been thrusting it into Hamilton’s mouth, watched as Alexander—

Crumpled to the ground, shaking and sobbing.

Horror cascaded over Aaron, guilt replacing the disdain, disgust transferring from the man in front of him to himself. How could he jump to an assumption like that so quickly, especially after how Alexander had been acting recently?

“Get. Out,” he growled, watching Madison attempt to tug Jefferson out of the room. Jefferson wasn’t having it, though.  
“What was it you needed with us, Burr?” How could the bastard sound so laid back, so casual after being caught doing something like that?  
“Your wife is here,” Aaron snapped. “Remember her? She said Lucy died.”  
Jefferson sighed, as if Aaron had told him he had left a paper on his desk, not informed him of his daughter’s death. “Again?” He mumbled, unconcerned. “I thought this one wasn’t going to die.” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “She cried too much, anyways. Have fun with your whore, Burr.” Jefferson glanced over at Hamilton, who was still a trembling mess on the floor. “I suppose we must cut this meeting short, yes? Remember, Alexander, tell anyone, the deal’s off.”  
With that the two Virginians swept out of the room, leaving Aaron flabbergasted and horrified with a pale and distraught Alexander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAPE ON-SCREEN: If you want to skip the entire scene, it begins at the "Two days later, the Virginians and Hamilton further discussed..." and it ends at the end of the chapter  
> If you just want to skip the actual assault, it's two paragraph's later until he end.  
> Basically, though, Jefferson's wife runs in because her daughter died, Burr goes to get Jefferson, and Sees Things. Jefferson is a sociopath, and he actually did have two kids named Lucy Elizabeth Jefferson (1780-1781, 1782-1784)  
> (I'm planning on either continuing with Burr's storyline or writing this from Alexander's POV next chapter. I'll try for weekly updates, but knowing me, it'll be like four days.)


	2. Aaron Burr (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, a very uncomfortable meeting, and sandwiches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand I'm back, no less than five days later. What is self control?  
> TW: self-blame by the victim

Aaron stood, frozen, still barely in the doorway, as Alexander pulled himself together and reached towards the neatly folded clothes resting on the table, pulling them on with rehearsed ease. He straightened up and attempted to walk out the door, shoulders hunched inwards and hands rubbing his face as if trying to wipe it clean of any trace of what had just happened—both the tears and the terror. Without thinking, Aaron reached out to catch his arm, regretting it as soon as Alexander froze, a soft cry wrenching itself from his throat.

“Alexander, it’s me, it’s Burr, Jefferson and Madison are gone.” Aaron desperately attempted to pull Hamilton out of whatever trance he was in, yanking his hands off him like they had been burned at the terrified noise that crawled out of the senator's throat.

Surprisingly enough, after repeating himself several times, it worked, Hamilton finally looking at Aaron instead of through him with a look of surprise, as if he never realized Burr was there. The surprise was quickly swept away by shame, and in true Alexander Hamilton style, he started rambling and nonsensically stringing words together, his face pale and his hands sweeping in frantic gestures as he spoke, and despite the confusing way in which he was speaking, Aaron got the gist of it: “Don’t tell anyone, let me explain.”

Aaron patiently waited until Hamilton had run out of breath and then interjected with a soft, “It’s all right,” gently attempting to guide Alexander out of the room.

He had no idea what he was doing. What was he supposed to do with a shaken political rival, especially one his relationship with was nothing but complicated? He didn’t— _couldn’t_ —hate Alexander; ever since the man had run up to him, his eyes bright and his gait full of the swagger that every nineteen-year-old possesses, back when they thought the world was theirs to explore, excitedly introducing himself as an orphan who punched the bursar, Aaron had felt a fondness that had persisted through the years. Maybe that was why he didn’t just let Alexander dart out through the door and instead invited the man into his home, terrified of what would happen if he left him there to do whatever he usually did after that sort of thing happened—terrified of what might continue to transpire behind closed doors.

Burr didn’t know what he expected, sitting there and trying to get Hamilton to his carriage, but the awkward guiding-and-leading thing he had going wasn’t it. Nothing he read ever talked about the uncomfortable transition phase of getting someone to your home—even in pleasant situations, it had to be tricky; now, it was just unpleasant. In books, it was always, “the two went home, and arriving upon the doorstep…” They never mentioned how vastly problematic it was to sit in a bumpy carriage with a dazed man twitching and occasionally muttering about how stupid it was of Burr to drag him home.

Burr supposed it didn’t happen to many people.

After the taxing trip was finally over, Burr helped Hamilton out of the carriage and pushed him into the stately manor he called his home as Alexander protested endlessly. Aaron ignored him, telling him to “make himself at home” while he bustled about, attempting to make something to eat for the two of them and eventually settling upon some sandwiches (not his best, but quick and easy), slapped together and brought into the parlor where Hamilton was standing, centered in the room with a queasy look on his face.

“You can sit, you know,” Burr pointed out, exasperated.

“I know.” He made no move to take a seat.

 _Well, might as well get to the heart of it,_ Burr thought. “Why?”

“Why?” Hamilton echoed, disbelief clear in his voice. “You see something like _that_ , and you ask ‘why’?”

Burr sighed. “Obviously.”

His abrasiveness and normality seemed to comfort Hamilton in some weird way, and the man relaxed a bit, though still standing stiffly in the middle of the room and staring at his shoes. “We needed the financial capital. Jefferson and Madison had the power to give it to us.”

Aaron winced at the defeated tone Hamilton used. “It can’t be worth it,” he protested.

Alexander flinched. “It was worth it. It _has_ to be worth it,” he muttered, sounding like he was trying to convince himself, not Burr.

“I mean—why not tell anyone?” Burr backtracked. “Washington probably would’ve done something to stop it, or—“

“Washington said to do _anything_ ,” Hamilton snarled. “Do you think he would’ve wanted to know how far I’ve fallen to follow orders?”

“Do you think he would’ve wanted this?” Burr quietly countered. “He sees you almost as the son he could never have, Hamilton, he—“

“—would be disgusted by what I’ve become,” Alexander cut him off. “I can’t tell him, or anyone,” a pause, accompanied by Alexander’s eyes fluttering shut, “you shouldn’t know, either.”

“Listen,” Burr began. “We can _ruin_ Jefferson and Madison, they’ll have to hand over the capital and the banks or what they did will come out.”

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton snapped. “You cannot tell a soul what you saw. They won’t be the only one’s ruined, I’ll be torn apart, my reputation—Eliza—it would be the end of my career and my life, Burr.” He swallowed, looking sick. “I spread my legs for them to get what I wanted; doesn’t that make me worse, in a way?”  
Burr was flabbergasted. “Hamilton, they assaulted you over and over again, none of this was your fault.”

“I am not a _victim_ , Burr, I did this to myself. The least I can do is keep my indecency behind closed doors.”

“ _Hamilton_ ,” Burr repeated, appalled.

He smiled wryly. “Even you, despite the resentment you surely feel towards me, pity me as the poor soul who sold himself for _banks_. It is better, I suppose, than the disgust you have so cleverly hidden, though I am sure it is there somewhere.” He shuffled his feet, staring at them like they were the most interesting thing in the world, and it suddenly became apparent to Aaron that Hamilton had not met his eyes once since he walked in on the three of them.

“Alexander, please look at me,” he pleaded.  
Hamilton shook his head. “I must take my leave, now; Eliza will be expecting me.” He stiffly bowed to Aaron, and, before he could make a noise of protest, spun on his heels and walked out of the room.

 

\--

 

The next day, as Aaron attempted to get his work done despite a notable absence of one Alexander Hamilton in the office, he saw none other than Thomas Jefferson and James Madison walk down the hallway and past his door, causing him to leap out and shout, “Jefferson!” down the hall.

The two of them turned around, Jefferson lazily strutting towards Burr with Madison scuttling behind him.

“Well if it isn’t Aaron Burr,” he drawled.

“Sir,” Madison rigidly greeted him.

“You two cannot get away with something like this,” Aaron hissed. “I will tell someone.”

“No, you won’t,” Jefferson noted with complete certainty. “We’ve got a little fail-safe in place, Burr. You tell someone, Hamilton gets the short end of the stick.” Madison nodded.

“Try me,” Burr angrily snapped, not caring that an empty threat had probably just ruined his political career.

“You’ve signed your own death warrant,” Jefferson sang. “Y’all can’t blame me for what happens next.”

With a swish of his hideous magenta coattails, the Secretary of State strutted down the hallway to his office, Madison following him, and the two leaving behind a fuming Aaron Burr.

 

\--

 

A few weeks later, it became apparent that while Burr’s threat had been all bark and no bite, Jefferson had fully intended to follow up on his promise, the evidence coming in the form of a dozens of newspaper clippings scattered around the workplace reading “The Reynolds Pamphlet.”

By the time Aaron arrived, Hamilton was already in his office, hands shaking as he read the words in bold print, _Secretary Hamilton Cheated!?_

“What is all this?” He hesitantly whispered to the nerve-wracked man, terrified he knew the answer.

Hamilton gave him a smile. But—it wasn’t a smile, because smiles didn’t make his stomach feel like it was trying to crawl its way out of his throat using knifes pushed into his insides as handholds. “I cheated on my wife—it’s apparently quite the scandal, Burr. It went on for _months_ , and with a married woman, no less. My poor wife.”

And _sweet Jesus_ , this had to be the worst news Aaron had ever received—not a little because it was entirely his fault.

And just like déjà vu, a beautiful woman with long black hair and anger etched on her unforgiving face stormed past him to confront her husband, but unlike before, Hamilton looked about as happy to see her as he would to be receiving a pound of horse shit in the mail. And unlike before, the woman had two pissed-off woman shadowing her, one in a flattering rose-colored dress and looking like she was ready to burn down the world, and the other in a sunshine-yellow dress, equal parts distraught and murderous. “Eliza, Angelica, Peggy,” Hamilton nodded to each of them in turn, looking sick.

“Why, Alexander?” Eliza asked, her voice breaking. “Was I not—not good enough? Not even good enough to hear it from my own husband, but from the _paper_?”

Peggy rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder as she stepped forwards. “How could you break my sister’s heart?” She hissed. “Eliza is the most wonderful, kind-hearted, beautiful person in the world, and you had to _ruin_ it over some bitch with big tits.”

Aaron was shocked at the vulgarity spilling out of the woman who hardly looked more than a girl, but Hamilton just sank lower and lower into his chair, looking like every word was a barbed arrow shooting at him with ungodly force. And he just sat there and _took it_. Unable to hold it in any longer, Aaron broke in. “Ladies, please, hear him out, it’s not—“

“Burr, sir, I am going to have to ask you to step out.” The request came not from any of the three women but from Alexander himself.

“But—“ He protested.

“What I have done is entirely wrong, I have no need of a defense.” Hamilton didn’t sound like he was talking about the supposed scandal anymore. “Let it be.”

And Aaron, coward that he was, left because Alexander’s words told him to, and let the man self-destruct even further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your daily reminder that COERCED CONSENT IS NOT CONSENT. Also, that Thomas Jefferson had several children with his fourteen year old slave he inherited from his father in law and that story has been romanticized by history. Thanks peace out


	3. Alexander Hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the hell has been happening with Alexander?  
> OR:  
> Hamilton makes bad decisions, struggles with self-worth, carriages are way slower than the author thought, and Eliza truly is the best of wives and women.  
> Warning for rape on screen but not terribly detailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: [sees that someone's commented on this fic]  
> Me: [writes a long-ass and heartfelt reply]  
> Me: pshhh i cant write that it makes me look creepy  
> Me: [deletes everything and just writes "Thank you!!"]  
> Fr, tho, y'all actually made me cry with how nice y'all are being; I didn't expect this to really get any recognition, much less the wonderful comments I've received in the last few days. I'm one hell of a broken record, but thank you, thank you, thank you for all the kudos/comments!!  
> Also, it's been more than a week since I've updated, and I'd like to apologize for that. It's been a very rough week for me, and,on top of that, I had no wifi. Anyway, I should be back on track now. :)  
> ALSO: I know my notes are long as hell, but I wanted to clear something up before it became a problem: Whether this is technically dub-con or noncon, it is in no way Alexander's fault. Jefferson makes allusions towards Hamilton wanting/enjoying it, and I would like to take the time to explain: it. is. coercion. Not only is the Reynold's Pamphlet thing part of the forcing him to do it thing, but in a weird way, Washington and the dynamic duo are basically making him think that the only way he can be worth anything is by doing this. None of this is in anyway the Hammy Man's fault.

Alexander had never claimed to think about himself before making a decision. The way he thoughtlessly threw himself into battle after battle, regardless of the threat of death, and the way he failed to sleep or eat until he finished a paper (which resulted in _many_ shouting matches between him and the Schuyler sisters, as well as several fainting in the office) further proved this.

So of course, when the President approached him and asked him to secure the national banks, it wasn’t a question of if he would do it, but how far he was willing to go for it. And as per usual, he would throw himself into the sea before disappointing his ex-commander.

At first, it was New York—the capital of the United States was, of course, wanted by all of the states, and the north and the south would’ve battled endlessly over it if they didn’t make a decision soon. Alexander gave it to the two Virginians in hopes of a quick and easy diplomatic trade-off.

That wasn’t all they wanted, though. They wanted votes, they wanted dirt on the president, and Hamilton had foolishly snarled that he would rather be ravished over the table by their filthy Southern dicks than betray Washington.

They made sure he got what he wanted, and sauntered out of the room with a casual, “Don’t kiss and tell, Secretary Hamilton,” thrown over their shoulder.

That week was the worst week of his life.  His reactions to little things seemed out of his control—he flinched at any contact and found himself crying over dropping a pen. Any time someone walked into his office, he would be seized with terror and, no matter who it was, see Jefferson with his sickening smile and Madison with his looming silence for a fleeting moment before being grounded in reality.

He was so distracted that he barely noticed when a paper was dropped off on his desk—a letter from Angelica telling him Peggy and Hercules were having an anniversary party and he was invited (or, as Angelica put it, he “was either going to come or be permanently disowned for breaking the ‘purest’ couple’s hearts’.”).

He didn’t end up going.

Jefferson had scheduled a “meeting” on that day.

 

\--

 

He was wrong. That week wasn’t the worst week. The following week wasn’t the worst week. For it to be the “worst” week, it had to be comparable on some level to the others. Hamilton felt like he was progressively being dragged deeper into hell, each level a sicker and more delusional experience as he absently wondered which sin he was atoning for.

He had hoped, of course that eventually his mind would find a way to fly out of his body, to evade the horror his body was forced through, but it seemed his greatest attribute would also be his downfall: no matter what he did, every single time, his brilliant mind would stay anchored in his battered body, being slowly destroyed.

He didn’t know—didn’t want to know—if it was his sanity or intellect that was slipping, but he figured it was both. Between the decreasing work value and jumbled words he could no longer make sense of, and the increasingly frequent moments he was flung from his spot in the present to the dark misery of the Room (as he had wryly dubbed it after hearing Burr endlessly rant about how much he wanted to be included), he figured that eventually he would run out of either to lose, anyways.

 

\--

 

It was always right after it happened, as Hamilton lay shivering and cursing his ability to still be so sensitive even after so many sessions, that he considered backing out—he would lose his resolve completely, telling himself over and over again that no matter what the backlash, it wasn’t worth _this_.

And then he would remember Washington welcoming him into his company despite his status, remember that all he could ever be was an orphan, an immigrant, an outspoken, loudmouthed bother. He would remember every time the man had called him “son”, and he had insisted that he wasn’t Washington’s son, because his father had left and his mother had died and he didn’t want to lose the ex-general. He would swear to himself that he would be useful to the man who had given him his shot, and if all he was worth was a body to sell then that’s what he would do.

It was and endless cycle of falling apart and sticking himself back together again, every time, the cracks getting wider and the fractures getting weaker and eventually he knew there would be nothing left. He kept pushing.

 

\--

 

He started drifting—he couldn’t make his mind _leave_ , so why not lock himself _in_? He hardly noticed the people drifting in and out of his vision other than to occasionally reply—if he noticed their words at all. Mostly, he sat at his desk and drifted, hands finally still after decades of non-stop writing. Words stopped flying easily out of his mouth; instead, every syllable he spoke was a struggle, forced out of his mouth like it tasted the same way Madison’s come did, heavy and uncomfortable just like the two men’s cocks weighed on his tongue and mind.

Burr would walk in and Hamilton would snap at him to leave, desperately trying to ignore the worried looks the man sent his way. It wasn’t fair—no one could make him think twice about what he was doing, but with one look, Aaron had Hamilton ready to spill his story and beg for—help? mercy? someone to talk to? He didn’t know what he wanted, but Burr had a way of looking at people like he knew what was in their hearts, baring them to the bone with a single glance, and being perfectly impartial as to what he saw there.

Alexander hated it.

 

\--

 

Hamilton was working at his desk, enjoying a brief reprieve from whatever monster haunted him day and night, when the clicking of heels interrupted his thoughts. An angry blur of blue cotton flew through his door and started ranting, irritation bleeding into the voice, and Hamilton flinched closing his eyes.

But this voice wasn’t low and slow and taunting, it was high-pitched and going a mile a minute and saying something over and over and—

“Alexander?”  
He realized he was gripping the desk with a white-knuckle grip and attempted to loosen his hold as he opened his eyes tentatively.

“Eliza,” he breathed.

Her face changed from the irritation masking fondness to concern, stepping towards him and raising a hand to his face as he forced himself not to flinch. “Oh, Alex, come on,” she sighed, worry etched into her features and voice. “Honey, let’s go home.”

She gently helped him out of his seat and, when he attempted to protest on the grounds of “not finishing the paper”, took it upon herself to drag him down the hallway, berating him for staying out and neglecting himself for the past few days.

When he arrived home, he slept in his study, barely getting a moment of rest before waking from a nightmare, the feeling of long, thin fingers trailing down his chest lingering even as the sun came up.

 

\--

 

Washington was in his office.

That, of course, was nothing new—the president often visited his secretary of state, whether on personal or professional business (despite claiming he was there to “check in”, he often digressed, asking Hamilton if he’d be willing to join Martha and him for dinner the following day or how Eliza was doing)—but today, Washington’s usual manner had disappeared, and his fatherly affection for the smaller man became apparent.

“Young man,” and of course, Washington had found a clever alternative to “son”, “I know I demanded much from you, but I don’t want you to exhaust yourself, you hear me?”

He jerked his head to the side in a nod. “It’s a work in progress, sir. It may take quite a while, but it will be done.”

“Alexander, I need the banks as soon as possible,” Washington said, tone regretful, as if he hated to push the younger man so far.

“I’m doing everything I can, sir.” Hamilton quietly mumbled.

Washington picked up on the unhappiness coloring Hamilton’s voice, his voice softening as he reassured him. “Those two are hard to bargain with, son. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

And the man swept out of his door, trading places with Burr, and Hamilton’s gut sank to his feet because he knew what was in the unopened letter dropped on his desk, as he studiously ignored Aaron’s unpleasantly astonished face and sent him out with a cold dismissal.

 

\--

 

A few weeks later, he opened the door to Jefferson’s chosen meeting place (the same as always, the round table and gaudy velvet tablecloth making Alexander want to claw out his insides, Jefferson lounging on one of the high-backed wooden chairs and Madison stiffly perched on the other) with trembling hands, focused on the ground in front of him as he picked his way across the room to the two Virginians. He quietly stood by the table and waited—Madison got up and closed the door, and Jefferson started “conducting business”—bent Alexander over with little resistance, uncaring of the thud caused by Hamilton’s head hitting the table.

“Careful,” hissed Madison.

“What?” Jefferson snapped, his voice bordering on dangerous. “Worried about the creole bastard?”

Madison flinched. “Don’t leave a mark on his face,” he muttered. “Someone’s bound to notice that.”

Sighing, Jefferson continued stripping the “creole bastard” in question. “I hate it when you’re right.” A few moments later, he slid into Hamilton with a grunt, causing him to flinch and hiss out in pain. “Damn, Mads,” he sighed. “Always forget how great he feels.”

Madison walked over, hesitantly unbuttoning his pants but making no move to actually do anything. Jefferson sighed. “Is this about the whole ‘consent’ thing?” When James stiffened, he continued, “He’s asking for it, Mads. If he didn’t want it, he wouldn’t come back. Now, stick a dick in it or chill out over there, but,” and here he paused to thrust into Hamilton and draw out a yelp, “I’m going to get my part from this ridiculous banking deal.”

Alexander heard the two bickering over him and closed his eyes, knowing what was coming. There it was: Madison’s thick fingers ghosting over his lips, prompting him to open up, to relax his throat and stifle his gag reflex. And so he did.

 

Sometime later, he heard a door slam open and felt dread seep into his bones; despite how displaced he was at the moment, Hamilton knew how shameful his position was and didn’t want another soul to see what was going on.

“Hey, Burr, want to join in?” Jefferson lazily asked, and _oh, shit,_ Burr _was in the room_? Alexander knew he would never, ever let this die. _Fuck._

Alexander wasn’t expecting the slew of curse words, especially from _Aaron Burr_ , of all people, but he _was_ expecting the disgust that colored his tone as he snapped, “Put your clothes back on.”

Madison quickly obliged, slipping out and leaving Alexander’s jaw aching after hanging open for so long. Jefferson was slower, pulling out and then ungracefully dropping Alexander’s body onto the floor. Alexander was almost tempted to hysterically laugh at how impossible it was to support his own body weight, but to be fair, he didn’t completely feel like he and his body were still one thing.

“Get. _Out_ ,” Burr snarled, and now he sounded angry and horrified as opposed to disgusted.

Jefferson’s voice sounded, and it seemed that he had walked to the other side of the room without Hamilton noticing. “What was it you needed with us, Burr?”

“Your wife is here,” Aaron hissed, and Alexander shivered, feeling the anger like a shock wave. “Remember her? She said Lucy died.”

Jefferson sighed, and Alexander felt the man was more upset to have been interrupted than to hear of the death of his child. “Again?” He mumbled, unconcerned. “I thought this one wasn’t going to.” He gave a half-hearted shrug. “She cried too much, anyways. Have fun with your whore, Burr.” Hamilton could feel Jefferson’s attention turning to him, burning a hole through his bare skin. “I suppose we must cut this meeting short, yes? Remember, Alexander, tell anyone, the deal’s off.”

A click notified Hamilton that the two had left the room, and he heard rapid footsteps clicking over to him and helping him up and it was _Aaron Burr_ helping him?

 

\--

 

It was, of course, Aaron Burr who had helped him put himself back together in that room, but Hamilton had foolishly assumed—hoped, maybe—that the man would just leave him there. He was wrong.

Burr insisted they travel back to his home—a good three miles away, forty minutes by carriage; a time that would surely be spent by a constant barrage of insults and questions.

The other man seemed determined to surprise him, though, as, after a few barbs, seemed content to allow Hamilton to sit in silence. He stared at his shoes, refusing to look up and meet Aaron’s gaze, knowing it would host a mixture of disgust and disappointment and Alexander desperately wanted to pretend, even for a moment, that there was a chance the man would let this all be quietly swept under the carpet.

When they arrived, Aaron led Alexander into the parlor and went off to the kitchen, muttering something about sandwiches and “making yourself at home”. Alexander ignored the suggestion and stiffly stood in the center of the room—he felt filthy, inside and out, and the room was so pristine he couldn’t imagine dirtying it any more than he already had simply with his presence.

Burr walked back in, balancing a platter with two sandwiches and setting it down on the coffee table before remarking, “You can sit, you know?”

Without moving, he responded, “I know.”

Burr sighed. “Why?”

Alexander blinked in disbelief. “Why?” He repeated incredulously. “You see something like that and you ask _why_?”

Burr’s mask of careful neutrality seemed to be slipping, his voice barely avoiding a snap as he shot back, “Obviously.”

Hamilton relaxed a bit. This, he could deal with. He wasn’t baring his soul about something that happened to Alexander with a man that not even he himself knew where he stood—as a friend, enemy?—but a discussing political pursuit Secretary Hamilton was embarking on with a member of the opposing party. “We needed the financial capital. Jefferson and Madison had the power to give it to us.”

“It can’t be worth it,” Burr objected.

“It was worth it,” he snapped. And then, quieter and almost to himself, “It _has_ to be worth it.”

Burr seemed to be rethinking his approach. “I mean—why not tell anyone? Washington probably would’ve done something to stop it, or—“

Anger boiled up in Hamilton’s gut, resentment at the tone the other man was striking—he was not a _child_ or a cornered wild animal, Aaron had _no idea_ what he was doing, why he was doing it. It wasn’t his place to say what the president would or wouldn’t do. “Washington said to do _anything_ ,” he snarled. “Do you think he would’ve wanted to know how far I’ve fallen to follow orders?”

“Do you think he would’ve wanted this?” Burr quietly countered, and oh, the man thought himself so clever. Did he think it would hurt Hamilton more if he voiced the haunting thoughts that had circled his brain for so long? “He sees you almost as the son he could never have, Hamilton, he—“

“—would be disgusted by what I’ve become,” he interrupted. “I can’t tell him, or anyone.” He paused, closing his eyes. “You shouldn’t know, either.”

Burr suddenly changed his tactic. “Listen. We can _ruin_ Jefferson and Madison, they’ll have to hand over the capital and the banks or what they did will come out.”

“ _No_ ,” Alexander snapped. “You cannot tell a soul what you saw. They won’t be the only one’s ruined, I’ll be torn apart, my reputation—Eliza—it would be the end of my career and my life, Burr.” He swallowed, suppressing the bile that threatened to creep up his throat. “I spread my legs for them to get what I wanted; doesn’t that make me worse, in a way?”  
“Hamilton, they assaulted you over and over again, none of this was your fault.” The man looked _shocked_ , hilariously enough, as if he genuinely believed what he was saying.

“I am not a _victim_ , Burr, I did this to myself. The least I can do is keep my indecency behind closed doors,” he hissed.

“ _Hamilton.”_ A reprimand, maybe?

Alexander laughed, but it was devoid of any emotion. It was unpleasantly sardonic, if he was being honest. “Even you, despite the resentment you surely feel towards me, pity me as the poor soul who sold himself for _banks_. It is better, I suppose, than the disgust you have so cleverly hidden, though I am sure it is there somewhere.”

“Alexander,” and here he internally flinched; the sound of his name on the other man’s lips brought an odd sense of familiarity that he wasn’t ready for. “Please, look at me.”

It struck Hamilton that he still hadn’t met the eyes of the man in front of him, and to be perfectly honest, the idea sounded about as appealing as walking up to Jefferson and asking him out to coffee. He jerked his head in negation. “I must take my leave, now; Eliza will be expecting me.” With a stiff bow, he did exactly that, leaving the sandwiches untouched and Burr surely staring at his retreating back.

 

\--

 

He skipped work for the next few days, dreading a return to the office and seeing Burr’s face for the first time since the entire fiasco. Eliza didn’t object, didn’t even comment, instead bustling about and fussing over Alexander like he was her child rather than husband. Her attentiveness served as both a distraction from his own thoughts and as a well of guilt: it was entirely unjust of him to take advantage of his wife’s caring nature after doing what he did. Yet, he couldn’t bring himself to confess or even to turn away her affections, exhausted as he was.

He was sitting by the fire, shaking hands clutching a cup of coffee, when he heard Eliza set herself down in the chair beside him.

“Alexander, my love, what can I do to help?” She sounded frustrated, not with him, but with herself.

Shame flashed through him. “My love, Eliza,” he whispered, “do not believe for a moment that you have not done all you could have, and perhaps more.” He sighed. “I have done a-a great wrong, and I am unsure of how to right it.”

She smiled softly. “You always were so concerned with the morality of what you do, dear. Is this a personal matter, or one of work?”

He sighed. “It was work, in the beginning. I fear it has bled into my personal life as well.”

She gently reached for his hand, settling her slim fingers atop his trembling ones. “You have always made the right decision, in the end, love. Have a little faith in yourself.”

He turned and kissed her on the forehead. “You truly are the best of wives and women, Eliza.”

She was. He didn’t deserve her.

The next day, he went back to work.

 

\--

 

Either Jefferson and Madison were getting antsy, or Burr told someone.

Those were the only two explanations for the paper Thomas had dropped on his desk that morning.

 _The First Political Sex Scandal of Our Brand New Nation!_ the headline read. Another one boldly said, _He Founded Our Banks—Now He’s Using That Money To Cover This Up (more on page three)_. The third simply stated, _Secretary Hamilton Cheated?!_

“What’s all this?” A voice asked. _Burr_. Hamilton thought about confronting him, but didn’t dare, not in the office. “I cheated on my wife—it’s apparently quite the scandal, Burr,” he sneered, but there was no heat behind the words, only an empty defeat. “It went on for _months_ , and with a married woman, no less. My poor wife.”

Burr looked distraught. So maybe it wasn’t him? Before the man could get a word in, the three women he wanted to see least in the world right now showed up. “Eliza,” he choked out in greeting. “Angelica, Peggy.”

“Why, Alexander?” Eliza asked, her voice breaking. He hated himself for doing this to her. “Was I not—not good enough? Not even good enough to hear it from my own husband, but from the _paper_?”

Peggy rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder as she stepped forwards. “How could you break my sister’s heart?” She hissed. “Eliza is the most wonderful, kind-hearted, beautiful person in the world, and you had to _ruin_ it over some bitch with big tits.” Despite the words and hatred being aimed at him, he felt a flicker of relief—it was good to know Peggy hadn’t lost her spark and was willing to stand up for her sister.

“Ladies,” and Alexander had all but forgotten about the man standing in the room with them. “Please, hear him out, it’s not—“

Panic rose in Hamilton. “Burr, sir, I am going to have to ask you to step out.” He couldn’t have Eliza finding out about what he’d actually done. “What I have done is entirely wrong, I have no need of a defense.” He knew he wasn’t talking about the supposed scandal anymore, but plowed through anyways. “Let it be.” Aaron took his leave, looking upset.

“Do you know what I did, when I first saw you?” Eliza broke the silence, voice wobbling. Peggy squeezed her hand in support. “I told Angie, ‘this one’s mine’. I loved you from the _moment_ I laid eyes on you, Alexander.” Eliza wasn’t cold. Eliza didn’t distance herself from her emotions, she wore them on her sleeve. Her voice was always filled with warmth. Now, though, the only thing behind her words was an irate heat. “I saved every one of your letters.” The anger was burning through the previous sadness that had colored her tone. “You could build worlds, palaces with your words. They were mine—the words, the letters. I-I thought you were, too.” Tears were trailing down her face, but no one in the room seemed to notice. “I thought you loved me.”

Hamilton couldn’t hold himself back any longer. “Eliza, I did—I _do_. I don’t deserve you, I know, but please believe—“

“You don’t deserve her,” Peggy snapped. “You never could. The king of England doesn’t deserve her. But the _least_ you could do was treat her like the gift she is.” Alexander flinched, knowing she was right. “Lizzie, you want to step out for a moment?” Peggy’s voice softened.

Eliza nodded, and the two left Hamilton alone with Angelica.

“Alexander,” she spoke for the first time.

“Angelica,” he breathed.

She snapped her gaze to meet his. “Do you know what you’ve done?” She hissed. “Eliza is the best thing that has ever and will ever happen to either of us. Whatever we had doesn’t matter—you _broke her heart_.” Alexander flinched, but she wasn’t done. “I married John, moved away from everything I knew, all for name and prestige. I didn’t want it, not a bit, but you know what? I have been faithful and loved him with everything I have been able to.” She slammed her hands down on his desk. “You two had something not even a tenth of the rest of the world gets—you two got married because you _loved each other_. How on earth can you betray someone you love?” She sounded like she was desperately searching for an answer. “What you have done is _unforgiveable_. If you spent the rest of your life serving my sister on hands and knees, you would barely even get close to making up what you’ve done. You, Alexander Hamilton, have both invented and executed a brand new type of stupid.”

He took it all. Didn’t even consider defending himself. No matter what he did, he’d be breaking Eliza’s heart—better cheated on than married to a whore. He deserved every single thing Angelica was saying about him. “Angelica…” he trailed off.

“Congratulations,” she snapped, slamming the door after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I STRUGGLE SO MUCH W/ THIS CHAPTER if it's as dry and flimsy as it feels I apologize. Ugh.  
> Also: I do a lot of research for my fics. Like, a lot. I spent twenty minutes looking at historical records of George Washington's dinner party invitees to make sure Hamilton would go over there. Of course, you may have noticed I keep saying the "financial capital" and shit. Well. I honestly have no god damn clue how any of that shit works so I just kinda. Made it a concrete thing? So, yeah, my apologies, but the "financial capital/banks" I keep mentioning are a physical place and where it is matters because... uh, some really important reason. (Like, why do people give a shit about where the capital is? Prestige? Then that's why they want the banks.) I wasn't really expecting it to be a big thing in this fic, so I kinda bullshitted it and now I'm in a hole.


	4. Alexander Hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of the squad makes an appearance, John is hurt, Hercules is confused, and Lafayette is amazing. Burr is mysteriously Not Present. The Schuyler sisters are coping off-screen, and everyone comes into Hamilton's office like it's a revolving door that only lets one person through at a time.
> 
> Note: I say that Hercules is Eliza's brother because a.) he is married to Peggy and b.) in the eighteenth/nineteenth century, in-laws were so close that legally, they were siblings. (This is hinted at in Satisfied and Take A Break when Angelica says "your favorite older sister" to both Hamilton and Eliza-- any actual romance between the two would've been considered incest, in fact.) Also, I've decided to go with the play's version of the Schuyler household with Peggy, Eliza, and Angelica being the only children, rather than attempting to write fifteen more people into this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I hate Thomas Jefferson an unreasonable amount, but. No. Just kidding. Fuck Thomas Jefferson.   
> aLso Laurens is unmarried in this fic as par with the musical and not history.

“So.”

Hamilton suppressed a wince. He didn’t want to recognize the voice, but there was no denying who it was. Even without looking up from his desk—which he was very dedicatedly _not_ doing—he couldn’t mistake it for anyone else. “Laurens.”

“Hamilton,” and Alexander flinched, hating the terror that coursed through him at the cold tone of John’s words—he _knew_ it wasn’t Jefferson, wasn’t Madison, that Laurens wouldn’t hurt him, but. What if he would? It wasn’t like the two hadn’t definitely had something going on during their time in the army, and though Hamilton had thought they had both moved on, had John? And now John was upset and he could take what he wanted, Alexander knew he wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ —do anything to resist, and his breath was coming in short gasps and he couldn’t _pull it together_.

“Alex?” John’s voice wasn’t warm, but it didn’t carry the same frigid anger it had before. “C’mon, count with me.” Worry colored his tone as he ran to the only thing he knew—whenever Alexander had flashbacks when they were in the war, they’d count. “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix.”

Numbly, Alexander complied, echoing the words and trying to anchor himself, but there was no use—it just reminded him of the almost-flings they’d had in the army, reminded him of a bright-eyed and freckle-speckled face leaning over his and counting in that gentle voice after he had fallen into a panic during a storm, and then they had kissed and Laurens had wanted to go farther but Alexander _couldn’t_ because there was a million things he had to do first. He bit his lip, drawing blood: there, that seemed to do it, the metallic taste letting him focus on the pain that was _there_ , not the pain he was afraid might be. Desperately attempting to brush it off, he replied with a semi-steady, “It’s good to see your face.”

John snorted, letting Alexander change the subject. “My face isn’t one to be forgotten, Alex. I have been told my good looks are so stunning none can compete.”

“Is that why you’ve yet to catch a wife?” Alex joked back. _Wrong move._ At the mention of a wife, Laurens’ face darkened, and the previous humor faded from the room. Alexander tensed.

“I will never understand you, Alexander,” he sighed. “You loved me, and I loved you, and you were loyal to your wife. We never had anything, and we felt something for each other.” Hurt flashed across his face. “What was so _special_ about this woman that she outranked both Eliza and I?”

Hamilton mutely shook his head. “You know I could never love anyone more than I love you both, John,” he whispered.

“I never expected anything from you,” John snapped. “You were a good man, and maybe that was what drew me to you—you rose so high and went through so much, and yet your purity and honesty never faltered, not for a minute. You were the most loyal of friends—and we all thought you were the most loyal of husbands, too.”

“I-I tried to be, John, I just—“

“No,” Laurens held up a hand, silencing Alexander. “I don’t want to hear it. Eliza loved you, I loved you,” here his voice broke, “and you didn’t just lose the faith of your wife, you lost me.” Alexander snapped his gaze from where he had been intently studying the grains on the desk to John’s face—the pain etched there nearly broke his resolve. Still, he was nothing if not unnaturally good at carrying out painful plans. Before he could get a word in edgewise, John continued. “I don’t—the romance is gone for both of us, Alex, and it has been for such a long time. But I still love you, and I love Eliza. You aren’t the man I loved. Alexander Hamilton would _never_ sleep with some random woman who happened to show up on his doorstep.” He finally fixed his eyes on Alexander, dark and rich brown meeting the beautiful blue (almost violet) eyes, both faces filled with pain of different flavors. “I’m here for Eliza.”

“Then why’d you come here?” Hamilton managed to ask, voice scratchy (from disuse or emotion, he wasn’t sure).

John broke eye contact, glancing towards the ceiling. “I don’t know, to be completely honest. Just wanted to see you for myself?” It wasn’t a statement, it was a question, directed both inward and at Alexander. John sighed. “Maybe someday this can be forgiven, but right now—I think that decision’s up to Eliza.” He smiled at Alexander, and it wasn’t an empty smile, or a cruel smile, but a wistful smile: a smile that said, _I wish we could’ve talked under better circumstances, I wish it wasn’t like this, I wish I could laugh with you and sit down and have a beer and talk about “married life” versus “freedom” and not stand across from you at your desk and not even recognize the face you have on._ And Alexander blinked, and returned the smile, and as soon as John turned out the door, he collapsed and let the tears fall as he drove away yet another person he loved.

He seemed to be making a habit of it.

 

\--

 

Hercules would be next, and honestly, Alexander was surprised he hadn’t arrived earlier with Peggy. It was a few days after John had come in, and he had managed to scrape himself back together enough to be more of a person than a unfortunately living reflection of his messy and uncontrolled office atmosphere.

Then again, Lafayette would probably accompany him—despite the two not even working _near_ each other during the war, they found a connection in their headstrong wives and love of baking. Adrienne and Peggy hit it off right after meeting, and the two couples often got together—if not for purely casual dinners, than for Peggy and Adrienne to talk as Hercules and Lafayette traded recipes.

“Mon petit lion?” A hesitant voice came from the doorway.

Alexander glanced up and immediately started backing up and shutting down, because despite the French accent, and the soft tone, and the way he held himself—all of the details faded away and _that was Jefferson and Madison standing in front of him_.

“It’s not—you didn’t write—“ he choked out.

“Mon ami, dis-moi, s'il te paît, qu'est-ce qui se passe?” Jefferson worriedly pleaded.

“Hamilton,” Madison snapped, an undertone of concern lacing his harsh tone.

“J-Jefferson, please, you—I didn’t—“ he begged.

“Jefferson?” The man repeated, shocked. “Mon ami, I am not _Jefferson_ , do you take me for one to wear those gaudy purple suits?”

 _What?_ For some reason, the figure in front of him stopped seeming like the man who terrorized his dreams and haunted the corners of his mind, started sounding like the man who had dared him to take four shots at once from one of Philip Schuyler’s ridiculously tall glasses and then ask Angelica to dance, sounded like—

“Lafayette?”

“Oui, oui!” Lafayette was positively beaming. “You gave Herc and I quite a fright, little Alex.”

Alexander closed his eyes. Hercules, of course—not Madison. It was ridiculous to make the mistake. “Je suis désolé,” he muttered, and then for the benefit of Hercules, “My apologies.”

The shorter man looked uneasy. “Listen, Ham, I know it’s not really my place, but Eliza is technically my sister—and it sure as hell feels like it.” He sighed. “But you’re just as much my brother. Tell me, what should I do?”

That was easy. “Back Eliza, Herc. She needs it, and I can’t—I don’t deserve your support after what I did. You know that.”

He looked conflicted. “Do I?”

“Mon ami, take care not to break little Alex,” Lafayette jumped in. “He seems to be a little… fragile?”

Alexander wanted to glare at his friend, he really did, but he was too exhausted to take offense, and honestly? There was probably some truth to that. He settled for a sigh.

Hercules didn’t argue with Lafayette, instead turning to Alexander and saying, “Listen, Ham. I was a _spy,_ alright? I know how to lie my ass off.” _Shit_ , Hamilton thought, knowing where this was going. “What are you hiding?”

He stiffly drew himself up. “I would think all of my secrets came out the other day, Mulligan,” he frigidly responded.

Hercules bristled. “Damn it, Alexander, what can’t you tell us?” He cried in frustration.

Lafayette had been watching this with a slightly calculating expression, but cut in before Hercules could yell anymore. “Mon frère, s'il te plaît, be kind. Perhaps… perhaps le petit lion does not want to share his secret?”

Hercules snorted. “The day Alexander Hamilton refuses to talk is the day I start praying for him, Laf.”

“Then I suppose you should beg for your God.” He was being uncharacteristically serious, fixing Hercules with a glare.

“Please, Laf, don’t fight with him over this,” Alexander pleaded. “It’s fine, I’m fine, everything is _fine_ , just—“ His words seemed to be doing the exact opposite of reassuring the two, so he cut himself off. “Be there for Eliza, Herc, you know you’re her favorite brother.”  
Hercules seemed uncertain, but nodded. “I just need to know why, Alex,” he said softly. “Not now, but soon, alright? Talk to me.” With that, he left the office, presumably off to find his wife and desperately attempt to hold her back from physically attacking anyone who was trying to blame Eliza for the conflict. Alexander was left with Lafayette.

The larger man gave him a small smile. “You know how my wife and I navigate relationships, oui?” At Alexander’s confused look, he explained, “Being engaged since fourteen—not quite a great opportunity to meet the wonderful ladies and gentlemen of France, if you know what I’m saying.” Hamilton laughed out loud at Lafayette’s cheesy wink. The man seemed satisfied. “Anyways, we have what you would call an ‘open-ended relationship’, see, and it allows us to freely enjoy l'amour des autres.” A pause. “But, we would not do it if we believed the other would not be happy about it, tu vois?” Alexander winced and opened his mouth to say something, but Lafayette cut him off with a shake of his head. “I have never seen someone as deeply loved as Eliza, and I have never seen anyone wish harm upon her—least of all you. There is not a chance you did what they say.” He peered at Alexander. “Yet, you have been through much—you have the look of a broken man, and Alexander Hamilton has survived much with but a passing glance at what many others would call the end of the road. Aaron Burr knows what has happened, yes?”

Mutely, Alexander nodded. “How did you—“

Amusement glinted in Lafayette’s eye. “Men have called me many things, Alexander,” he began.

“Oh, God, no,” Hamilton mumbled, slamming his head on the desk.

“An incubus, a master of the arts, a revolutionary Lancelot,” he continued, grinning.

“Please, don’t,” Hamilton begged.

“But none have ever called Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette a fool!” He proclaimed, managing to keep a mostly-straight face. Alexander made a muffled noise that could’ve been words but were unfortunately blocked by the stack of books he had let his head drop into. “What was that?” Lafayette questioned.

“You are ze worst,” Alexander groaned, mocking Lafayette’s accent.

The man threw a hand across his forehead, mockingly feigning hurt. “Those words are specially resolved for Burr.”

“Reserved,” Alexander corrected automatically. “Anyways, you can’t tell anyone, alright?” He hated to drag the conversation back to the dark place it had been, but he couldn’t afford it getting out.

“I don’t believe it could be much worse than it is right now,” Lafayette dryly remarked. “I will keep it a secret if you share a little of yours, oui? And you cannot tell me it is involved with Jefferson and Madison, because I already know that.”

Hamilton froze. “Very well,” he whispered. “But another time, another day, my friend.”

Lafayette nodded understandingly. “Take all the time and days you need, mon petit lion. I will always be here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mon petit lion: my little lion  
> dis-moi, s'il te paît, qu'est-ce qui se passe?: my friend, please tell me what's wrong (ish)  
> Mon ami: my friend  
> Oui, oui: yes, yes  
> je suis désolé: I am sorry  
> Mon frère, s'il te* plaît:brother, please  
> le petit lion: the little lion  
> l'amour des autres: the love of others  
> tu vois: you see  
> ma cheri: my darling (but feminine-ish)  
> (google translate french, y'all-- i don't know a single word of it myself, so if anything is wrong p l e a s e let me know!)  
> EDIT ON THIS: you guys are literally the best! Translations are now (hopefully) more accurate, thanks to [theTRUEreset](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theTRUEreset/pseuds/theTRUEreset), [Youngblood_the_Killjoy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Youngblood_the_Killjoy/pseuds/Youngblood_the_Killjoy), and most of all, [mysticalArchitect](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticalArchitect/pseuds/mysticalArchitect).  
> Also I know I have laf using french waaaaay more than in the canon but im weak af and love other languages so. Sorry, y'all.


	5. Aaron Burr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaron makes a decision and I finish off a chapter four months later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return from the dead, lmao. Sorry about the long-ass wait; school is kicking my ass emotionally and intellectually. Fuck off, trigonometry, no one likes you.

Burr wasn’t stupid. A lifetime of waiting and watching had taught him better than anyone else how to read a room—or, in this case, a stubborn senator. Hamilton wasn’t going to budge on his frankly ridiculous dedication to lying to his wife (and friends), and Aaron could see why, in a twisted way.

Aaron was never one for social norms—he detested the way women were treated as a lesser race, and his stance on sodomy* was similar in his controversial views. Despite the so-called “word of God” condemning the act, he couldn’t muster up even a slight annoyance at the thought, and mostly believed “to each his own”, as it were. Yet, it didn’t change the fact that the general public would not only highly disapprove of Hamilton’s actions but ostracize him and ruin Alexander’s entire career.

He knew it wasn’t Alexander’s fault. Whatever had been happening (and Burr was still veering away from the idea in his mind), it wasn’t a result of lust on his part, but a skewed world view and an utter lack of self-worth, paired with (perhaps?) malicious intent on the part of Jefferson, and Madison being wrapped around his friend’s little finger. However, the media tended to over-look such issues of “consent” in their desperate need to dive onto stories like a kettle of vultures descending upon a still-twitching corpse. He also knew first-hand the terror of being rejected by someone you love for who you love—his sister, Sally, hadn’t written to him since he confessed his lack of attraction for the fairer sex, despite his short-lived romance with Theodosia Prevost—in all honestly, what they had was much more akin to friendship than a courtship.

But despite his weary approach concerning sexual attraction, he didn’t believe for a second that the people who loved Alexander would focus on the “man with man” part and not the _rape_ ; yet, it was quite clear from Alexander’s fidgety nature and secretive manner that he didn’t quite agree. The man needed time, and Aaron didn't have the right to decide for him what he wanted to tell the people closest to him.

Despite his inner turmoil, he couldn’t help wincing in sympathy when six people, all upset and hurt in varying degrees, showed up at the office, so he put his foot down.

"Ladies, gentlemen, we do have a policy here." He was lying, obviously, but after days of reflection and careful consideration he figured he had prepared a pretty good lie. "No more than two people as visitors to one man at once." He flinched at the glare fixed on him and hastily amended, "I will make an exception for the sisters, of course."

He hadn’t calculated the arrival of one French ex-soldier who most definitely knew the ins and outs of Washington’s “rules” and would surely push to see his smaller friend. _Hold it together, Burr_ , he chided himself. _You have the best poker face west of England; there’s no need to break it now._

Lafayette's gaze was fixed on him, unreadable but still unnerving. The normally flamboyant and happy-go-lucky Frenchman was now staring at him with a look that quite frankly made him reevaluate his belief that Hercules Mulligan was Alexander's most terrifying friend.

"Mon ami," Lafayette said, switching his attention to John Laurens and gently touching his shoulder. "You, me, and Herc will go, oui? I believe Eliza and her lovely sisters deserve a first visit."

John tersely nodded, and the two walked out, followed by Hercules after a quick exchange of looks between the man and his wife.

Burr dazedly let the three women pass him as he stared at the retreating figures in shock. Lafayette was perhaps the president's closest friend and knew Burr was spouting bullshit, so why let him get away with it?

Still, he wasn’t about to stare a gift horse in the mouth—and honestly, who came up with that expression?—and he let the trio walk away without comment or complaint.

 

 

It had been more than a month.

More than four god damn weeks of watching Alexander slump over his desk, pretending he was staying to do extra work a little later when Aaron _knew_ he was sleeping in his office, more than four weeks of watching Alexander barely grasp at thin strings somehow tying him together, more than four weeks of watching those ties slip a little more each day, more than four weeks of Hamilton refusing to even look him in the eyes, more than four weeks of watching Jefferson walk in with a smug smile, Madison trailing behind him, and Aaron had kept his mouth shut.

He hadn’t seen the sisters come through his office, which was understandable, but he was a little surprised to see an absence of any of Hamilton’s friends (even though, in Burr’s opinion—despite having not much social or familial bonds to judge from—the people who surrounded Hamilton and supported him at every turn seemed a little less like friends and more like family, or sentient limbs, or something). Despite everything that had happened, he had assumed even one of them would notice that _something_ was wrong, something that didn’t add up quite right or some tell in the way Alexander flinched away from every small movement towards him that signaled something other than “cheating politician”.

But nothing happened.

And quite frankly, Aaron was sick of it.

It was one thing for the initial shock and hurt to blind someone to reality, but he couldn’t believe that none of the people in the office (or outside of it, for that matter) had thought to look deeper into the problem. Most specifically, he _knew_ someone like Lafayette or even Mulligan would make a note of an off-ness in the story. So, he decided, after forty-one days of silent torture since the news had come out, he would tell _someone_.

If only to let Alexander have someone besides  _Aaron fucking Burr_ , apathetic sociopath of the century, knowing why the man trembled at the sound of a letter falling on his desk; had someone who loved him and could  _show_ it to hold him and support him instead of glance through the window, guiltily flick his gaze back to his paperwork and let Alexander tear himself into pieces. 

John Laurens was the obvious choice—Alexander’s best friend, a head-strong but loyal man who would probably respond to a confession of murder on Hamilton’s part with, “where should I hide the body?” Still, after Aaron reflected a bit, he realized Laurens was likely the most blinded by hurt other than Eliza, and quickly changed his mind.

The Marquis was his next choice; although he knew very little of the man, it was no secret he was willing to engage in sexual relations with either sex and would easily see past the _male_ part to the _rape_ part.

But Aaron knew, deep down, who he had to go to. He was just avoiding the _right_ choice, the _hardest_ choice, because it felt like the worst betrayal of all: he had to go to Eliza, because she _deserved_ to know, whatever Hamilton may think.

And so, after the office had cleared out (except for Alexander, always _except for Alexander_ ) he packed up his bags, flagged down a carriage, and rode off, hands clenched tightly around the seat edges, to tell Eliza Hamilton the worst truth she would perhaps ever face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I do fully realize sodomy can refer to bestiality and can be taken as offensive; however, we all know how people reacted to gay things in the 1700s... the term homosexuality wasn't coined until 1868, nor was it used in the bible until 1946, and most of the words were either offensive or made no sense/wouldn't have been very clear in the context of this story (i.e. Mollies, sissies, etc.) In addition, Burr may have been "the first feminist of the United States", and progressive in his views, but he lived and died in the eighteenth century and most likely wouldn't have even though about "politically correct terms" for gay. And so, sodomy was used in this fic.  
> (I know this chap. is short as all heck, but I needed Eliza to have her own chapter bc eelizardbeth is the real mvp fight me)


	6. Elizabeth Hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, half-update. Aaron Burr has no balls and Angelica is ready to set him on fire if he doesn't get to the god damn point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half-Update because I Am Determined To Get The Other Half Up Tonight If It Kills Me.

Eliza was fine.

 

Yes, her husband cheated on her. Yes, the whole world was knocking at her door with varying degrees of pity and disgust. But Elizabeth Schuyler Hamilton was perfectly fine.

Angelica came in, all the way from London, to support her, and Eliza knew Angelica was still shocked every day by the composed apathy on Eliza’s face. She would run in circles, cooking and talking up a storm and doing everything she could to help Eliza, take her mind off of _Miss Maria Reynolds_ and Alexander Hamilton and talking endlessly about her time in London and the odd people there and making small talk.

Eliza would not talk about Alexander. She was fine, and did not need to talk about him.

After Angelica had gone to sleep, Eliza would retire to her room, stare at the piles and piles of letters she had meticulously sorted into stacks, circled around their— _her_ —bed, the letters he wrote to her, the letters she wrote to him, letters about love and passion and congress, letters that made her fall in love fast enough to pledge the rest of her life to him after two weeks.

And then, with steady hands and a faltering heartbeat, she would raise them to the flame she kept going day and night, and watch as the yellows and reds and oranges and blues burned away the beauty, the affection, the heartbreak, reducing it to thin, fluttering ashes, soot that stained her hands and mixed with the tears she hadn’t even noticed falling. The letters fittingly went from beautiful tokens of emotion to cold, gray smudges on the floor. And then she would sit and stare and burn through letters and thoughts, until morning came and she forced the apathy to return and went about her day.

 

Eliza was not fine.

 

None of that mattered, though, when a tentative knock echoed throughout the house, Angelica rushing forward to tell the reporter off as she had done so many times, Eliza staying at the table and leafing through a novel about a boy who had killed his father. Quite frankly, it was a tad boring for her tastes, so she did not miss the stunned reaction her sister had upon viewing their visitor.

“ _Burr_?” Angelica hissed. Burr responded, too low for Eliza to hear. “Very well,” Angelica sighed. “I suppose it would be rude to not at least invite you in for tea.”

He walked through the door, seeming very uncomfortable and weary. “I do hope there has not been a death in the family?” Eliza called from the parlor.

He jerked his head up, as if noticing her for the first time, and gave her a distracted nod, then immediately contradicting it with, “No, my apologies, there has not been a death. Thank you for your concern, though.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Then what brings you to our home?” She inquired politely.

His hands fidgeted, and his eyes darted around the room. “I, uh, I bring news, Missus Hamilton, and I’m afraid it is not very pleasant news, but it must be told.”

Angelica stepped in, after gauging the conversation from the entryway.  “I do not believe my sister needs any more bad news, Burr,” she snapped.

He tensed up. “I believe, Missus Church, that this is news your sister must hear, as it is extremely relevant to your stance on many recent events,” he returned.

“Angelica, please,” Eliza said softly. “If Burr believes we must hear news, I say we must.” With a laugh she didn’t quite feel, she added, “It is the first time we have seen him take such a strong stance, is it not?”

Angelica begrudgingly sat down, crossing the room to place her hand over Eliza’s and gesturing with the other for Burr to take a seat. He did so. “The conditions of this entire debacle have been highly manipulated, and most of them are entirely untrue,” he began.

Eliza tensed. _Calm, controlled, concealed,_ she reminded herself. “I’m afraid I do not understand which ‘debacle’ you are referring to, sir.” After all, conclusions are rarely accurate when jumped to, are they not?

Burr stared at her, unimpressed and hesitant. “The so-called ‘Reynold’s Affair’, ma’am.”

It appeared hasty conclusions could be trusted, after all.

Angelica squeezed her hand and nodded for Burr to continue, as Eliza was frozen to her seat. He did so with the air of one walking across a frozen lake—that is to say, as if a single misstep could send him plummeting into a frozen death.

“I would like to begin this with the reasons Hamilton himself is not here to tell you, but I am afraid they will not make any sense unless the facts have been presented first.” He took a deep breath. “Miss Maria Reynolds was one of my clients a few years back. She filed for divorce on grounds of life-threatening abuse affecting both her and her six-year old daughter.” Eliza stayed silent, waiting for Burr to get to his point and refusing to feel sympathy for a woman her husband apparently valued above her. “A year later, she was remarried and moved west with her husband, William Turnerson. She currently lives in Tennessee, and hasn’t been on this side of the country since the divorce.” _Wait._ _What?_ Eliza couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. If Burr was correct, then… “I am trying to say, Missus Hamilton, that your husband never slept with Miss Maria Reynolds or Turnerson. In fact, Alexander never slept with another woman since you two were married.”

Eliza was still statuesque. Angelica, however, was not as she stood up, kicking her chair back. “Aaron Burr, so help me God, are you attempting to tell us that Alexander lied to my sister and told her that he cheated, for no purpose other than to hurt her? At the cost of his _career_?” She snapped.

“ _No_ ,” Burr shouted. “Damn it, Miss Church, I am trying to tell you that something much worse happened to your sister’s husband, something which he refuses to speak of because he blames himself!”

“And what on _earth_ would that be?” She fired back. “What could be _worse_ than—“

“Stop,” Eliza quietly interrupted. “Ang, stop.” Angelica retreated to her seat next to Eliza. The younger sister turned to Burr. “What the hell did my husband get himself into?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back. Today is the last day before either Trump or Hilary is president, so future-people: tell me how that goes. Are we burning women at the stake for learning science? Do we have an email version of snapchat yet? Can you actually see the TrumpWall from space? Are pantsuits required?  
> Also, my life is hectic, but soon,,I will have daily updates. Hourly. Every fifteen seconds, I will have 2,000 more words typed, proofread, and posted.


	7. Elizabeth Hamilton----Alexander Hamilton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finishing the last chapter and seeing inside Hamilton's head.  
> There's a POV switch a few paragraphs into this chapter because I have poor planning. TW for: suicidal thoughts, period-typical homophobia, internalized homophobia, victim-self-blaming, and all that fun stuff. I also went back and edited a few things in [chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7410877/chapters/17084587) but it's just the notes and some French translations. Also some TJ stuff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for some period-typical homophobia as mentioned above, which was harder than I thought it would be to write. I was raised by very chill people and they're (mostly) agnostic, so this is one area where I can't really click into the character's mindset.  
> I was super-duper close to being like, "fuck it, in this world America gives no fucks about sexual orientation", but I realized that's really inaccurate and also a little rude. It's way at a minimum, though. Also, doing my research for this, I cried.

In the end, Burr awkwardly stumbled through half-explanations until Angelica slammed her fist down and told him in no uncertain terms that if he couldn’t get the words out, she’d march straight to her brother-in-law’s office and ask him herself.

He hastened to reply after that.

“General Washington instructed your husband to secure the national banks ‘whatever the cost’. While they were discussing terms, Jefferson had the bright idea to violate him repeatedly, with the aid of Madison. They did so multiple times; I am unaware of exactly how many, but as long as the negotiations have been occurring, I’m sure. They kept him quiet under threat of exposure.” Eliza flinched, sickened. Burr’s features hardened at her reaction. “I would expect _you_ , of all people, to hold some sympathy, ma’am. There was no consent involved, an—“

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Burr!” She cried. “My—my Alex, treated like _that_? How could he think I would be—how could _you_ think I am disgusted by him, and not by those vile abominations you dare call senators?”

The anger on his face faded a bit. “I am sorry, but that is exactly what your husband fears. I did not believe to be wiser than he on your predicted responses.”

Angelica’s white-knuckle grip on Eliza’s hand didn’t lessen as she stood, making as if to slap Aaron. He backed away quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. “I believe it is time we had a talk with Alexander, Lizzie.”

 

 

She didn’t want to make a scene at the office.

Despite what she had told Burr, she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about the idea of male intercourse. She just… didn’t _know_. Of course, she had met the Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben, and despite his… _oddities_ … he seemed to be a very lovely person. Jefferson and Madison, on the other hand, seemed to be _absolute scum._ She was coming to the conclusion that the homosexuality didn’t quite define a man.

Still, it didn’t matter what she thought. She knew exactly what the media thought, and what the Bible said. Innocent or not, the world would be on the back of her husband, and he would lose even more than he already had—for, infidelity was one thing, but Eliza knew all too clearly what could happen if _this_ truth came out. The baron was a perfect example of that; he had been cast out of his country for it, and he’d gotten off lightly because of his status. She knew in America the act was punishable by death, or lifetime imprisonment.

And so, no matter what, she would have to keep quiet, and avoid making a scene at the office.

She had Burr make a scene at the office.

 

\--

 

 

Prior to Aaron Burr’s possibly disastrous decisions regarding his coworker’s wife and sister-in-law, said coworker was doing what he did best: thinking.

Alexander Hamilton prided himself on his ability to see the facts, and though many had called him anything from hot-tempered to mad with emotion, and in one less-than-favorable comment by John Adams, producing “a superabundance of secretions, which he couldn't find enough whores to absorb”, he kept his head up and opinions clear on any point. He considered the topic of himself to be no different.

As a child in Nevis, he learned something notable about the human race: it does not do to have a world in your head if none around you care for the world you present. More simplistically, no matter what outstanding treasures you hold, others only care about what you can give them. Originally, Alexander cared about what people thought of him about as much as he cared about the harsh words normally directed at a fatherless child, but then he became a motherless child, too.

And he learned that what people think of you matters a great deal when you cannot depend on unconditional love. A man with none to care for him has no value as a person, and as such, can _never_ matter. The only way to be strong enough to hold his own life in his own hands was to allow it to be molded to fit others’ lives; at least, for the time being.

He wasn’t enough for his father, that much he knew. Before Alexander was born, Rachel, James, and James Jr. were a happy enough family. Suddenly, he was born, and his father took off, never to be seen again by anyone in their family. His mother said she didn’t blame him. James did.

He tried to do better, but always thought he’d have his mother and James, no matter what. Then, his cousin removed himself from the world, and the brothers were alone again.

James left to become an apprentice. When Alexander naïvely asked if he could go with him, James shook his head, lip curling, and whispered, “I can’t have you messing this one up, too, Lexie,” and left Alexander to scramble about, trying to find somewhere to go.

He did, eventually, and finally made himself useful. A kind merchant by the name of Thomas Stevens took him in, and Alexander immediately put himself to work, tirelessly aiding the man and his son and silently accepting and perpetuating the touches that made his skin crawl, but seemed to please Thomas. Alexander learned quickly that the farther he allowed the man to go, the less likely he was to fire Alexander. Eventually, though, he made his way to America _by himself_.

He had controlled his own fate. He had pushed his way through to a new world, free of the tangled web of falsehoods he wove to keep him from falling to the bottom of whatever invisible hierarchy ran in the minds of men, only to create a brand new one in a brand new place.

The difference was, he could _create_ his web in America. He had a clean slate to make a man he could proudly present himself as, and damn if he wasn’t about to put everything he had into being worthy of the people who helped him get there.

When George Washington had come to him and asked him for a “simple favor”, Alexander knew he had to comply, no matter what the cost. Not only did he owe the man for everything he had become in America, but the consequences of failing Washington were _disastrous_.

If he failed, he could be fired, and being fired directly by the First President of the United States of America would absolutely destroy his career. Without his career, he would fade, becoming nothing: Lafayette would see him as he truly was, an unruly street rat from a random island in the Caribbean, Mulligan would be disgusted by his abject failure, John would quickly fall out of any affection for a man who’s only claim to glory would now be dropping from fortuitous to useless, and Eliza would have no use for a husband with no power or money. He would lose the only people he cared for, he would lose his career, he would lose his _worth_ , and so he had to succeed.

Now, though…

Alexander sighed, looking out of his window onto the bustling street. It was around suppertime, and people were running home from their busy jobs in the city to see their families, enjoy a good meal. He watched as a woman grabbed a child by the arm, gently scolding them for speaking out of turn as they quickly dashed across the street. A man was waiting, looking absolutely exhausted, but his face lit up upon seeing the mother and child approach him.

There was a creak behind Alexander. He flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for the cool, long fingers to stroke down his neck, a quick whisper sending chills down his back, but… nothing.

 _Of course_ , Alexander scolded himself, trying to push away the shaky feeling haunting him. _They have never done anything in this office. Stupid. Irrational._ He pushed back his chair unconsciously, relaxing bit when he felt the back of the chair hit the wall.

 _God damn it_. He couldn’t go on like this. He was completely useless, he couldn’t even write a paper without his thoughts becoming scattered, and he couldn’t debate on the floor with _their_ eyes watching him, burning a hole through his back and waiting for him to slip up. He just wanted to—

To what? Honestly, the only thing he wanted was for everything to just disappear. The paranoia, the guilt, the terror, the desperation, all of it, he wanted gone. But he couldn’t just _stop existing_ , could he?

 _Yes_ , he realized with a sudden jolt. Yes, he could, and it was as easy as picking up the letter opener on his desk and counting to six. _Un, deux, trois,_ for the right arm. _Cuatro, cinco, seis_ , for the left. He picked it up, fingering the designs on it before putting it down. First, he would write letters.

 

In four hours, there were eight letters, addressed respectively as, _My Dearest Eliza, Dear John Laurens, To My Favorite Sister, Angelica, Gilbert du Montier, Marquis de LaFayette, Hercules Mulligan, To The Most Ferocious Woman In My Life, Margarita,  To General Washington,_ and, lastly, _Dear Aaron Burr._ All of the letters were brief (out of style as that was for Alexander), and composed of mostly the same information: he regretted ever hurting any of them, Eliza most of all, and this was the easiest way to prevent such a misfortune to happen again. To Eliza, he privately disclosed that she would have it much easier finding a new husband as a widow than as a divorcee, and wished her luck and love in life.

Aaron’s was quite different. It read as follows.

_~~Dear~~ _ _Aaron Burr, ~~sir,~~_

_I have no right to ask any favors of you. We are adversaries, nothing more. I, in fact, likely owe you. Still, here I am, asking something I believe to be moderately reasonable. I am a proud man, Burr, but I ~~ask~~ beg that you keep what you saw transpire ~~between Jeffers~~ in that room ~~, you know what I speak of~~ between the two of us. Of course, you have likely already told the press, but I ~~wish~~ desperately hope you have hesitated enough to read this and ~~reconsider~~ spare my wife and reputation from the lasting fallout of such ~~a scandalous~~ an occurrence._

_~~Your Obedient Servant,~~ _

_~~A Desperate Man,~~ _

_~~Your Political Adversary,~~ _

_~~With Hope,~~ _

_Alexander Hamilton_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I forgot to mention, but Maria Reynolds did not ever get remarried. Aaron Burr was her divorce attorney, though.  
> *Also, the Baron Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben most likely never met Eliza, but Hamilton did help him personally in drafting a training program in a great part because Hamilton could speak French, and the baron only spoke French. I highly encourage you to do some research on him, though, because he's like my favorite revolutionary dude and when I first saw Hamilton I thought that he was in the play. It turned out to be Lafayette and I can't say I'm disappointed.  
> **Additionally, James Hamilton, Jr. wasn't actually an asshole and Thomas/Edward Stevens were genuinely kind/Thomas was even rumored to be AH's realDad(TM) and Edward was actually a super good friend of Ham's.  
> The more you know.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander gets some sense slapped into him.  
> "Slapped into him" is more like a gentle coddling with several encouraging words from the people who love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was that, a five month hiatus? I have no words.  
> On a brighter note, I live in the wonderful world of California; more specifically, right outside of LA. I go to Hollywood for plays and the like, but everything is expensive as fuck, as well as busy as hell. By some miracle, I managed to wrangle some Hamilton tickets out of the theater, and will be seeing it in August!!!!   
> Also, re-reading this to catch up and continue, I realized I subconsciously put a Fall Out Boy reference in there? So.   
> Never fear, I will (hopefully) never abandon a fic without saying anything. This update, to make it up to you, is EIGHTY THOUSAND WORDS. Just kidding. It's only, like, 1.5k. Anyways, I love you all and thank you so, so much for sticking with me!

_“Bring him home,”_ Eliza had hissed, grabbing at Burr’s cravat with the ferocity of a woman well accustomed to needing to push to be heard. _“Bring him home to us, or so help me God, I will march into that office myself rain hell on those two Southern bastards.”_ Burr had thought it wise not to argue.

So here he was, standing awkwardly at the door to Hamilton’s office, shifting from foot to foot and contemplating if he should knock or burst in unannounced. _A gentle knock_ , he decided, _is likely the most polite thing to do in this situation._ But what if Hamilton was asleep? _Better to just walk in, I suppose._ Then again, what if Hamilton was indeed asleep? How would he react to being crept up upon and woken?

“So, how’s Martha doing?” A familiar voice echoed down the corridor, startling Burr.

Another man answered with a snort. “We’ve had six of the bastards, but every time one bites the dust, she’s a mess for weeks. Women, right?”

Aaron did not hear the response. He, of course, recognized both Jefferson and Madison’s low voices, and as soon as he got his wits about him, he stepped into Alexander’s office, consequences be damned, and slammed the door behind him, hopefully without the duo noticing.

He began holding his hands up in a _I swear I’m completely innocent, please give me a moment to explain_ ,” gesture before he even turned around, quickly saying, “Hamilton, we need to ta—“ He cut off upon seeing Hamilton shakily drop the letter opener he held in his left hand to his desk. “Alexander, what in Heaven’s name were you _doing_?”

Hamilton looked dazed and vacant. He didn’t seem to fully realize Aaron was in the room. Burr quickly checked over the other man: there didn’t appear to be any blood, and it looked like Hamilton hadn’t gotten to do whatever he was aiming to do with the knife. With a sinking feeling, Burr reached out, trying to move the blade away from Hamilton, but that seemed to yank him out of whatever corner of the mind he was inhabiting and pull forth a reaction.

“Burr,” he noted passively, tucking his trembling hands under the desk, appearing to have regained complete control over all of his motor functions but the one. “As delighted as I am to once again be graced by your presence, I simply _must_ request that you leave. I was busy.”

 

“Busy?” spluttered Aaron. “Alexander, you—“

“—were probably planning on doing something drastic? Seems to be my modus operandi, Burr,” he remarked dryly. “It appears that you haven’t quite gotten the message, so I’ll repeat it in a clearer way for you: get the _hell_ out of my office.” He grew increasingly aggravated as he went on, eventually slamming his hand on his desk and causing Burr to flinch back in surprise.

“No,” he said firmly.

“I don’t recall asking,” Alexander snapped.

“Eliza needs you.”

Alexander’s eyes blew almost comically wide. “What happened? Is she alright?” He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Did Jefferson do something to her?”

Aaron sighed, in part relieved that Hamilton was finally listening, but still worried about how empty he had just appeared. “She needs to speak with you. She’ll be here if you don’t go to her, first, so I would advise going home.” Alexander’s jaw tightened. “Please, Hamilton. You know this will only get worse as time goes on; you need to see her _now_.”

Hathmilton hissed out, “Very well, Burr,” and stood, brushing past him and out of the office. Aaron hesitated, then grabbed the stack of letters on Hamilton’s desk, tucking them into his coat and following the other man out the door.

 

The carriage ride was… awkward, to say the least. It didn’t help that Aaron was swamped by memories of his last ill-fated journey with Alexander, and that he was surely remembering the same thing. Not a word was exchanged between them: Alexander, silent for reasons unknown, and Burr, knowing he would break immediately and tell the other man that he had told Eliza everything. Though Aaron felt horrendous keeping it from Alexander, he knew that a single word could send Hamilton flying off, back to reclusively wallowing in his office and likely unleashing the unbridled fury of the Schuyler sisters upon the entire United States Government.

Definitely a bad idea, then.

Still, he couldn’t help but let out a quiet sigh of relief upon seeing the Hamilton estate in the foreground, nearly jumping out of the still-moving carriage in his haste to escape the stifling hostility permeating the box. He followed Alexander up the steps, sweating nervously as the door cracked open, a hand darting out, grabbing Alexander’s cravat, and pulling him inside before allowing Burr to pass through and slam the door behind him.

Inside, Eliza and Angelica sat on the sofa in the parlor, the hand (now having released Alexander) belonging to Peggy, who was standing by the door and tapping her foot impatiently. Sympathy and concern dominated all three of their faces, but the events of the day seemed to have brought out Eliza’s unmovable confidence: steel hardened her gaze and determination lined every feature as she strode across the room to her husband. Peggy wisely backed off, Burr quick on her heels.

“Eliza,” Alexander said stiffly.

“Alexander.” She drew herself up a bit. “My love, my wonderful, intelligent husband, what the _hell_ were you thinking?” He flinched, but she continued. “I _married_ you, Alex! Do not presume to believe I do not know what that means. I make a _promise_ to stay with you, always, no matter what may come between us, so long as our hearts remain true. As far as your collogue has informed me, that holds true, too. On what earth would I deny you help in this matter?” she cried.

Alexander shot Burr a _look_ , one which was returned with equal gusto, before turning back to his wife. “Betsey, darling, I would not force such terrible news upon you. You are lovely, pure, and kind; you do not deserve such treatment—“

“You’re damn right, I don’t! I have stood by you at every moment, no matter what accusations were thrown at you, because you told me otherwise and I _believed you_. You only had to say the word, and you would’ve had an ally, you would’ve had _me_ , by your side, ready to face the world hand in hand, if that’s what it came to.”

Peggy stepped forward. “Not just my sister, Alex. You know we love the both of you; I would’ve stood with you two until they burn me down, and I’m sure Herc would, too.”

“We _all_ would, idiot,” cut in Angelica. “We threw our lot in with you the moment you started showed up to a house party and started dreaming of America while the world’s most eligible bachelorette practically threw herself at you—no offense, Liz.”

“None taken,” replied Eliza, her eyes sparkling. “Alex, do you really think we would’ve taken _their_ side in this? Do you think, for one moment, we could love you less for something you had no control over?”

“I did have control over it, Eliza,” he snapped. “I could’ve walked away, I could’ve refused any of those times, I could’ve ran. I could’ve told them to tell the world or fuck themselves with it, but I _didn’t_. I just let it happen, over and over again.”

Burr took a steadying breath, looking to Eliza for permission. She nodded. “Alexander, you could’ve stopped it, sure. But would they have listened? Would they have let you walk away, without a single consequence? _No_. You know they would’ve ruined your career and life; to you, Alex, those two are nearly one and the same. That was—coerced consent, at best. It was _not your fault_.”

Eliza stepped forward, resting her hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “We love you, Alex. Please, come home. Let us work through this together. You don’t have to be alone anymore.” He finally seemed to break and give in. He closed the distance between them, collapsing into her arms and pressing his face into her shoulder. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer and pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. “We’re all here to help, honey. You just have to let us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eighteenth century cravats. literally everything about them is amazing. im in love with them. help me bring them back.  
> Your trivia for today: there is actually a website dedicated to terms for clothing in ~biblical times (1823!)~, which is [here](https://www.history.org/history/clothing/men/mglossary.cfm). Also, friendly reminder that in this 'verse, John Church and Angelica (while married) function more like business associates (kinda like real-life gwash and martha). Meanwhile, Pegleg is str8 up married to herc, because i said so. This is gearing up to be much more of an end-game friendship, and I'm so sorry.  
>  Also, that was a shameless BoM reference, and i love you if you got it.  
> ALSOALSOALSOALSO, please drop a comment on what perspective you want next and it shall be delivered with love and probably angst.


	9. A/N (Sorry!)

Hello! It's been a while since the last update (over half a year, I think), and based on how many people are asking me if this is over, I figured it would just be easier to write in a note in the actual story than respond to each comment individually. This may be a bit long-winded, as I am prone to, but bear with me (or don't, I guess?).

This fic is likely discontinued, and I  _probably_ won't be writing any more. I only say "probably" because I have a tendency to return to things spontaneously, but as it is looking right now, this fic is over. 

**Why?**

Well, for a few reasons. The biggest one is that I just am not committed to the fandom side of Hamilton anymore. I have by no means fallen out of love with it, and I recently saw it not once but twice in the same month by some miracle of nature, but I don't read fanfic, nor do I interact with the fanbase or fanworks; my connection with Hamilton has been reduced to simply enjoying the music, much in the same way it started back in 2015. A few lesser ones are: I don't have the time -- or, I guess, it would be more fair to say I no longer  _make_ the time -- to write creatively; I am in a different place mentally than I was when I first wrote this and I am no longer in the mindset to properly continue this with the same style or tone; I never had a definitive plan for where this was going.

**What was going to happen in this fic?**

Though I didn't have a written-out  _plan_ , I had a vague sense of direction with this: Burr and Eliza, plus the rest of everyone, help Hamilton get back onto his feet, Angelica makes a few not-so-veiled threats, everyone does their own bit in either helping Hamilton or decimating Jefferson/Madison, Hamilton eventually feels strong enough to confront them and move on with his life, everything ends happily-ever-after. At some point, this was going to end in a hamburr thing, but again, I've fallen out of shipping for the most part, so it can be whatever you want.

That's it! Thanks so much for everyone who's carried this fic this far, and thank you to everyone else who reads it! I'm finally cutting my losses and marking this as complete, and I hope no one's too mad at me for this. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tl/dr: this is discontinued, sorry!   
> much love,   
> xoxo

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr at [dismalspacenoodle](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dismalspacenoodle) if y'all have any questions, comments, concerns, (macaroni and cheese donations), or you want to chat about literally anything because i am ALWAYS down to rant about characters or hear drama. I love you all so much!!!!  
> Kudos are gr9 and I feed off of comments. Please do ;)


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